


Stone Cold

by PunsBulletsAndPointyThings



Series: Sansûkh: The Appendices [7]
Category: Sansukh - Fandom, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Did I Mention Angst?, Frerin feels, So much angst, sansukh fan fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-12
Updated: 2015-01-12
Packaged: 2018-03-07 06:09:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3164192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PunsBulletsAndPointyThings/pseuds/PunsBulletsAndPointyThings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frerin waits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stone Cold

**Author's Note:**

  * For [determamfidd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/determamfidd/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Sansûkh](https://archiveofourown.org/works/855528) by [determamfidd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/determamfidd/pseuds/determamfidd). 



> So, this is my first time writing anything based off the fabulous Sansukh by the equally fabulous determamfidd. Frerin's lines at the end are taken straight from Chapter one and are thus not mine. Actually, nothing is mine, and the canon characters belong to JRR while the rest belong to Dets and you all probably know the drill. Any way, while writing this I realized just how long it has been since I last read the whole fic straight through (guess what I'm doing tomorrow), so I apologize if there are any mistakes involving stuff like timeline.

When Frerin opens his eyes for the first time in the Halls of Mahal, the action is accompanied by great intake of breath, panicked and harsh, his head whipping around. Why could he not see?! Where was Thorin?!  
  
“Peace, inùdoy, peace.” A voice, gentle and louder than anything Frerin had ever heard before, so loud that it seemed to fill every corner of his being, said. A hand, massive in size, skin rough and calloused but still gentle, settled on his upper back and Frerin slumped back, allowing himself to be supported. “Ataman, ataman. You are safe here.”  
  
Hot tears slid down Frerin’s cheeks, because suddenly he knew. He knew what this was, who the voice belonged to, where he must be. There could be no other answer. “I am dead, aren’t I?”  
  
Mahal, for that must be who the voice belonged to, was quiet for what could have only been a few moments, but to Frerin they felt like an eternity.  
“Yes.”  
  
Frerin felt numb. How could this be? This wasn’t...he shouldn’t...but he.... His breath hitched and caught in his throat as he struggled for words that refused to form. Something like fear settled deep in his bones, and in that moment the blond prince had never wished for his brother more, never wanted to feel the reassuring presence and warmth that was Thorin at his side, hear his voice, steady and strong, telling him that “everything is going to be okay nadad” as badly as he did right then. But he couldn’t. Because this wasn’t like every other time, this wasn’t bullies, or a broken toy. Thorin was not here. This was not something his big brother could fix. Because Frerin was dead.  
  
His Maker’s great hands guided Frerin’s unresponsive frame up, his bare feet stumbling on the cold stone, his knees buckling under his own weight. “Go now, Abkundûrzud, go to your loved ones. Go heal.”  
  
And then he was gone, and the room felt empty and hollow, as if it had been full of people who had all left simultaneously. Alone, tears still coating his cheeks, Frerin did the only thing he could. He began to walk.  
  
He made slow progress, his legs still weak and shaking, but steadily growing stronger as he walked. Though his sight had not yet returned to him, Frerin could feel when the stone around him shifted, warming and filling with life. This thought brought more tears to his eyes.  
  
A sudden cry of “There!” made him jump in surprise, but before he could open his mouth to call out there was the pounding sound of heavy boots on stone and Frerin was begin held tightly against someone whom he knew immediately. Her scent, her warmth, the feeling of her hands in his hair, her fingers calloused from playing the harp, Frerin had missed it all so desperately, but it was not until he heard his mother’s voice, soft and heavy with emotion whispering “Inùdoy, oh my inùdoy” over and over again that he began to cry in earnest. Frerin wailed, his whole body (too small, far too small to be the size he would be forced to remain) shaking from the strength of his sobs. Later, when he thought back to the moment, he thought that perhaps his mother had been crying as well, but Frìs strong arms had never slackened, never loosened their hold on her youngest son, as his cries of anguish echoed around the cavernous hall.  
  
Frerin does not speak much in the first few months. It is just...too hard. Too hard because every time he opens his mouth, every time he hears his voice, he is reminded of just how young he is. His is the voice of a child, or at least of a dwarrow not long in realm of adulthood. He keeps to his rooms for the same reason, hating the pity that inevitably flashes in the eyes of the dwarrow around him (but not his parents. Never his parents, and for that Frerin is thankful.), hates that he must look up at most of them.  
  
Frerin discovers the Chamber of Sansûkhul on his own, quite by accident. The young prince had taken to exploring the many halls, chambers, workshops, and forges that made up the Halls of Mahal. When he first entered the through the massive arched doors, he felt as if he had somehow been transported to another place entirely. The chamber felt....magical, as childish of a word as it was. The sight of the few dwarves already within, seated on the pristine and beautifully carved white stone benches, staring glassy eyed into the waters of starlight had been slightly off putting at first, as had the feeling of entering the starlight it’s self, but Frerin soon grew accustomed the sensation, to the brilliant lights that flashed in his vision.  
  
After that, Frerin could often be found in the Chamber. He watched the tattered remains of his family, his father, his big brother, his beautiful baby sister, as they struggled to put a life together. Sometimes Thrór or Frìs, or even his grandmother Hrera joined him where he sat. Thrór was always silent, or else a flurry of motion, rage and guilt as strong as a storm and as thick as Orc’s blood spurring his motions on. Frìs and Hrera were more stable than Frerin’s grandfather, as they always were in life, and they had been in the Halls longer, arrived under different circumstances.  
  
It hurt, watching his siblings. Watching Thorin grow up far too fast, Frerin’s already serious and stoic big brother growing cold and humorless. Worse still was watching Dís, his beautiful, mithril-voice baby sister, the little dwarrow girl who had chewed on Frerin’s braids and slept between him and Thorin on stormy nights going cold and serious, her skin heavy with mourning marks. It made Frerin want to scream at the wrongness of it all. The day Dís met Vili, and her laughter was finally heard again, Frerin nearly wept. How he had missed that sound.  
  
When his father vanishes, Frerin sits with his mother, as she searches for him. They are unsuccessful, and the hollow look in Thráin’s eyes when he finally arrives in Mahal’s Halls haunts Frerin for many years after.  
  
Frerin loves Fili and Kili, even though he has ever met his nephews in the flesh. He loves them so much, because they have done the impossible. They have brought life back to his siblings. There is not always enough food, and the boys are thinner than anyone watching likes, but the little dwarflings manage to bring a smile to even Thorin’s lips, small as it might be, the children blissfully unaware of what an incredible thing they had accomplished. When Vili dies, Frerin fears that Dís’ smile, her mithril bright laughter will be lost to the world forever, but it is Kili, five years old and innocent in his ignorance, who assures his dead uncle that that will not be the case. The dark haired boy is all smiles and laughter, always wanting to be held, tugging on his brother’s braids or squishing Thorin’s cheeks between his tiny hands because “no bad face!” That brings laughter to even Thorin’s lips, and Frerin loves his little nephew all the more for it.  
The day Thorin allows the boys to join his quest for Erebor, Frerin dearly wishes it was still within his power to touch the living, because never in all his life and after has he wanted to cause his brother physical pain as much as he did then. “They are just children! Still just children!” he had screamed, hands tugging viciously at his golden hair, his “lucky hair”, bah, and how could Thorin think that this was a good idea they were not that much older than Frerin had been when he-  
  
Frís found her son when she arrived in the Chamber an hour later. Frerin curled in a ball on the floor, back against one of the benches, arms wrapped tightly around himself, as if to keep himself from falling apart. She had not asked, not said anything, just knelt down next to him and held him until he was calm enough to speak.  
  
Watching Thorin’s descent into gold madness and the following battle was the hardest thing Frerin had ever done, but he refused to leave the waters of Sansûkhul even for a moment, not even for food or sleep. His mother was with him most of the time, Thráin, Thrór, Vili, and Hrera as well. Hrera is the first to see the signs of madness in her eldest grandchild, her sharp, hissing intake of breath enough to alert the other adults, but Frerin does not understand, not at first. Not until he sees how pale his grandfather becomes, feels Frís tighten her grip on his hand, hears Thráin whisper “No. Merciful Mahal, please, no.”  
  
And then he understands, and fear grips his heart like an icy hand. Their horror growing, they watch as the situation in Erebor grows more and more dire. When Thorin snaps, holds the hobbit over the battlements, hands tight around the halfling’s throat, madness gleaming in his blue eyes —long since grown dull from gold lust— and screams of betrayal and death, it is all too much for Thrór. The old King Under the Mountain vanishes from the starlight, his wife following close behind after reassuring the four remaining dwarrows that she would look after her husband.  
  
Frerin cries when his nephews die. They were so young, so bloody young! Kili barely even had a beard! Vili vanishes from the starlight almost before his children breathe their last, and Frerin knows he will be sprinting to the gates to await them.  
  
Thorin’s death is the worst. Frerin has to bite back his screams as he watches the light leave his brother’s eyes because it could not just end like that! His brother had fought so hard, for so long, had sacrificed so much, and he would not even live to see his home fully restored under his rule and it was just not fair! Frís’ grip on her son’s hand was painfully tight as they allowed the starlight to pull them back to the Halls, and then Frerin was running, tearing stinging his eyes and blurring his vision. There was already a crowd gathered, waiting for Thorin and Frerin stopped, hanging back slightly in order to get himself under control. He would not cry when he met his brother. He would smile, and tease because he was Frerin, son of Thráin, brother of Thorin and Dís, Prince Under the Mountain and he was the one who was always smiling. That was his part.  
  
And then his nephew (his beautiful nephews whom he loved so dearly but could not approached because they did not know him) were shouting and running and the group followed and he saw his parents hugging a figure, naked and staggering. He blinked back a few more tears, a true smile spreading across his lips because it finally hit him that he had his brother back. Without consciously thinking about it Frerin was at Thorin’s side, just in time to hear Fili speak of Dís. He laughed lightly.  
  
“Our grumpy little Dís as a mother. Let Middle Earth tremble.”  
  
He saw Thorin freeze, unseeing eyes flicking around, searching. His smile widened into a grin.  
  
“I’m very cross with you, nadadel,” he continued, “You took your time. What, were you lost again? You made me wait one hundred and forty years. Have you any idea how rude that is?” And his arm was over Thorin’s should and that oh so familiar presence was once again next to him and Frerin was smiling so widely that it hurt and all he could think was ‘Finally. Finally.”

**Author's Note:**

> Khuzdul:
> 
> Ataman = Breath  
> inùdoy = son  
> Abkundûrzud = Frerin's dark name. Means Dawning Sun.  
> nadadel = brother of all brothers  
> nadad = brother


End file.
